Plumage by Nancy Springer Read Free Book Online Page B

Huh ? What did you say?”
    â€œI said, just come as yourself.”
    â€œTo what self do you refer?”
    â€œOh, never mind. Wear whatever you like. Wear a belly-dancing outfit,” Sassy grumbled, “made of feathers.”
    Racquel stared at her, his expression smoothing. “You know,” he said slowly, “that’s not a bad idea.”
    Sassy rolled her eyes.
    â€œYou really don’t want to go home and get some sleep?”
    â€œNo.” There was a downhill dynamic to these things, Sassy knew from years of sour experience. Go home, go to sleep, and set the alarm clock for four in the morning to get back to the hotel lobby. And then oversleep? And then rush around like—no, thank you. “I’m staying. I don’t know when the Pest Control people might show up.”
    â€œYou still haven’t explained to me why you’re so fanatical about rescuing this parakeet.”
    Sassy stared straight at the bird in question and said nothing.
    â€œWell, listen. If we must hang around, we could go into the shop for a while.”
    Not a bad idea. It would get them out of management’s sight, yet keep them close to where Sassy wanted to be. “Okay.”
    Racquel led the way, and trailing behind him, Sassy watched his hornbill flap along beside him in the mezzanine mirrors. Odd. Maybe it was because she had never been in the hotel at such a shadowy time before—but in the darkly gleaming glass she seemed to see, not mirror-image mezzanine behind the hornbill, but forest. She glimpsed the plumy movement of foliage, the snaky outlines of vines in the shadows, the silhouettes of unknowable flowers folded for the night. She could almost hear the rustling of ten-foot ferns, the breathing of trees, the silences and echoing cries of night birds. Her chest yearned. She wanted to be there.
    Then she blinked, and her sleepy mind woke up in alarm. What was she thinking? What did she imagine she was seeing? She looked again, and saw the reflection of ficus-on-steroids trees.
    Racquel led her through a service door into the labyrinthine, windowless, and blessedly mirrorless guts of the hotel, the gray cinder-block corridors employees used but of which guests were seldom aware. When they reached a steel door marked PLUMAGE, Racquel unlocked it and motioned Sassy in. He did not turn on the lights.
    Dim, the shop felt larger than it was. Deep, like—like a forest again. Feather capes and boas hung like willow leaves, swaying in the breeze of Sassy’s passing. She liked the way they responded to her, almost as if they were alive.
    She breathed deeply of their dry spicy scent and sank into the leather chair where patient husbands were supposed to wait. Her feet were tired after a long day, even though she wore silicone-padded uglishoes to clean. Racquel, however, who wore four-inch heels all day, did not sit down, but roamed the shop with hands lifted like wings, his long fingers questing. He plucked a teal derby from the hat stand, strode over and plopped the topper on Sassy. He crouched in front of her and adjusted it at a coy angle.
    â€œFetching,” he said. “Very fetching. Look at that little pointed chin. You have a face born for hats, Sassy.”
    He brought a feathered pillbox and tried it on her instead of the derby.
    â€œNo,” he murmured, “you’re more of a farouche type.”
    He went off again and returned with a highland bonnet trailing pheasant feathers. He crouched and settled it gently on her.
    â€œOh, that’s charmante. Très charmante . Come look in a mirror, Sassy.”
    She shook her head, her chest aching. Drat, she loved hats; why had it been so long since she had bought a hat? But she knew she would see nothing in the mirror except a blue parakeet.
    â€œWhy not? Don’t you like it?”
    â€œI’m tired. You try on hats.”
    â€œCan’t. That’s the only thing I don’t like about my look. I